


Leave

by arte



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- Post Reichenbach, Character Death, Friendship, Gen, Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:50:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arte/pseuds/arte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thinks he is going insane.  He doesn't understand. Yes, Mycroft is dead, but it shouldn't affect him so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Funeral

**Chapter 1. The Funeral**

 

The air was crisp. John fidgeted, hoping that his best suit would give off some warmth. It was of no use. He looked down at the gravestone in front of him.

 

Mycroft Holmes, the cold marvel informed him.

 

The image was hauntingly familiar, yet so surreal. He remembered the white letters of different Holmes’ name etched on a black surface. He remembered how it all felt like a horrible, but distant dream(it’s not happening).

 

The doctor glanced at his side. Sherlock Holmes sat beside him with perfectly blank face. He was pale as a ghost. John wanted to grab him and never let him go. The gravestone reminded him once again that no one was infallible, that everyone could perish from one moment to next.

 

Only seven months had passed since the detective’s return. There were still awkward moments between the two flatmates, and there had been even more awkward conversations, and downright terrible arguments. John still got a jolt of painful amazement now and then when he saw the detective experimenting in the kitchen. Sherlock acquired new nightmares on top of his usual insomnia. But things had been getting better, and John had been so ready for things to go back to normal.

 

And then, a call. A car accident.

 

It wasn’t right, John couldn’t help but think. They had won. The Holmes brothers emerged victorious together and they had been working on closing the chasm between them. There had been newfound closeness between the two of them, tentative affection peaking from their cool façade.

 

It shouldn’t have ended like this.

 

 _I worry about him_ , John wanted to speak to Mycroft, just like he had after the Irene Adler incident. He wished to talk to one person other than him that new and cared about Sherlock more than anybody else. It didn’t matter at this moment that he and Mycroft still remained uncertain of each other after the Fall. He wanted to say,

 

 _Sherlock is not eating. Not because he’s grieving, he said, but because he’s on the case. He is going through your case, Mycroft. Your bloody case. He thinks you faked your death, just like he did. The driver was alcoholic. The man had low intelligence, weak stomach, and tremor in his hands. Not a good asset as an assassin, Sherlock’s words exactly, but he is still looking. He sneaked a few hairs from your body. He wants to make sure. The result is not back yet, but he allowed you to be buried. I don’t know what that_ means _, Mycroft._ _Can you come?_

 

People were delivering eulogies for Mycroft. Sherlock had refused to give any words. The detective instead chose to scan the accumulated crowd. Then, abruptly, he stood up and left. John stared at the empty seat for a moment, processing what had just happened, and hastily stood up and followed suit, muttering half-hearted apologies.

 

“Sherlock!” John hissed loudly at the figure striding away. “Where are you going?”

 

“Back to London,” Sherlock replied shortly as he set a brisk pace.

 

“You don’t even have a car!”

 

“No, but you do,” the little thief said as he jauntily jingled a car key between his fingers.

 

“When did you…” John automatically patted down his pocket. “No, never mind. Give me that, and let’s go back.”

 

“Why should I? Would anything interesting happen? Let’s see,” Sherlock assumed a contemplative yet sarcastic air. “People pretending to reminisce about the dead when in fact they are just gossiping, people saying something tedious like ‘My condolences’, ‘He was a good man’, and let’s not forget the audacious ones that would look affronted when I say that I am not interested in their petty tales. Why, I can’t find any reason to subject myself to that.”

 

“Sherlock,” John pursed his lips. He opened and closed his mouth. _Because it’s a show of respect, because it’s your brother, because you need a closure, he’s gone and you know it, stop driving yourself mad with investigation._ None of the words were right. The only thing that came out in the end was a sigh. “Fine, let’s go. Just give me the key and let me drive.”

 

Sherlock gave a suspicious once-over, gauging whether it was a clever plot to rid him of the means of transportation. It was not. John steadfastly stood with one arm out stretched. The man carelessly tossed the key.

 

* * *

 

They drove in silence for awhile. It wasn’t comfortable.

 

“Just speak, John,” Sherlock spat out impatiently. “You think too loud.”

 

Trust Sherlock to always provide a wonderful starter.

 

“I thought you wouldn’t come at all,” John blurted out. He immediately tried to back-peddle, it wasn’t what he wanted to talk about. But he came up with no new idea. Maybe it was what he wanted to talk about on a sub-conscious level or something. He didn’t know. He decided to just let it be.

 

“I just came to check,” Sherlock replied shortly.

 

“What were you looking for?”

 

“Accomplices. A funeral would have put great strain on their acting skills.”

 

 _Did you check on Mycroft on your own funeral?_ John curbed his first retort. The funeral had rattled him more than he thought it would. Mycroft was supposed to be omniscient, a power to be reckoned with behind his CCTVs and umbrellas. The disbelief caused by the man’s death immediately brought his memory back to another funeral, and it dragged up all his old(or not so old) negative feelings. But it was no time to throw past accusations around.

 

“You didn’t find anyone,” John easily deduced instead. It was simple enough one to make. Sherlock’s body language was frankly radiating discontent.

 

“No,” a short pause. “But nothing is simple when it comes to the British Government.”

 

“Sherlock, what do you-“

 

John couldn’t finish his sentence, for Sherlock suddenly chose that moment to flinch and whip his head toward the backseat, momentum making him half slip out of the seat. The army doctor almost looked back himself, but resisted the urge and only checked the rearview mirror. If there was some kind of trouble, he didn’t want to complicate it even more by running into someone or something because he didn’t kept his damn eyes on the front. He couldn’t see anything. Was someone following them? It wouldn’t surprise him if it was true. It would be bloody typical. He grabbed the wheel tightly, preparing to maneuver the car whichever way possible to get them to safety.

 

“Sherlock,” John asked tensely. “Is there something wrong?”

 

Beside him, the detective sat completely frozen. Sherlock swallowed, and slowly peeled his eyes from the backseat. It took seemingly long time for him to return to his original position.

 

“No,” he let out at last, forcing out nonchalance in his tone and posture.

 

I don’t believe you, you almost made me flip the car, John was about to snap, but one look at Sherlock made the words die in his throat. Various emotions were uncharactaristically flashing across the detective's face. Among them, John recognized the look that lurked behind those blue-grey eyes, strange and unpleasant. It was that of realization. Him saying, _Sherlock, have you seen this,_ and finding nobody beside him. It was an ugly thing. John bit his lips.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said. On unspoken record, they decided to abandon all attempt at further conversation. Maybe it was a good thing. John didn’t know what he would have said if his friend replied otherwise.

 

 


	2. Confirmation

**Chapter 2 Confirmation**

 

 _Don’t think, just move on._ That had been John Watson’s mantra after the war. It might not have been particularly healthy, but it had at least kept him up and moving throughout those times. That had been good enough. John shifted the bags in his hands. Food was important part of moving on. You had to eat no matter how bland it all tasted. The army doctor thought about explaining this to Sherlock. Not the mantra part, but eating being important part with side note of it being necessary for whatever you do. It would go no better than his previous attempts. He decided to just forgo arguing the point and go straight to shoving food in the face.   

 

“I’m back,” he muttered as he pushed the door open with his shoulder. His hands were full, but he knew better than to hope that Sherlock would come to assist him. Sherlock had started to pay more attention to John’s leaving and coming since his absence, but that didn’t make the man anymore helpful when it came to food. John could practically hear the detective drawling _it’s transport, John_. He didn’t understand how a genius like him couldn’t understand the concept that transport needed a _fuel_.

 

When the doctor finally climbed up the damned seventeen stairs, Sherlock was folded on the arm-chair in his customary pose, hand gathered together in front of his mouth. In other words, he hadn’t moved for past few hours. Sighing, John went into the kitchen. He was going to make the detective consume something before he fainted in the middle of their flat.

 

“John.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“The result came.”

 

John stopped in the middle of stocking milk in the fridge. He closed the door. He hesitated for a moment, leaning his head against the cool surface for a moment. The tone of the voice alone told him what the result was. He was surprised to find out that some part of him was hoping for the opposite answer. That part was shriveling rapidly now, and a hollow sadness followed in turn. He thought he knew, he thought he accepted the fact days ago. He went to the man's funeral after all. The low hum somehow gave him strength. He padded back to living room and sat in front of Sherlock. His friend kept his focus on the table.

 

“It was Mycroft,” Sherlock informed quietly. “He’s dead.”

 

John’s throat tightened. Ella’s office flashed in his mind. He felt the heavy words nestled on his tongue. “I’m sorry.”

 

"Why, you didn't kill him," Sherlock said without any heat and continued on. “The driver had no connection. He would have done anything to get some money and waste it on alcohol, but he was too useless to even use as a bait or a sacrificial lamb.”

 

“You checked thoroughly.”

 

“I did,” Sherlock carelessly swiped mountains of paper works on the table to the floor. “An accident.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Papers were strewn everywhere around the flat. One man’s life dissected open and slapped on pages upon pages. John imagined Sherlock, searching and searching, even though the nagging feeling that it was of no use kept trying to bringing him down.

 

“There is no mystery behind his death” said Sherlock with air of quoting someone.    

 

He suddenly sprang from his seat, only to stalk toward the couch, and unceremoniously thump down upon it. “Boring,” he declared. He put his arm across his face.

 

“Tea?” John asked after a length of silence. His friend exhaled loudly.

 

“Please.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock leapt out of the taxi without paying. Already having suspected that it would happen, John resignedly pulled out his wallet and paid in his stead. When he came out, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but there was a house surrounded by the yellow tape, and it even had a Detective Inspector Lestrade next to it. It was obvious where Sherlock had gone off to.

 

“Is it okay for you to be outside?” John asked.

 

“He just poured insults at me as soon as he saw me. Cooling down my head, don’t want to punch him.”

 

“You should try, it’s very satisfying.” They shared a half-hearted smile.

 

“How is he?” Greg asked. This was the first case Sherlock had since the funeral.

 

“He said he’s fine.” John said in a flat tone. He sighed. “He.. confirmed that the body was Mycroft.”

 

“Oh,” the police officer pursed his lips. “Then he’s really..”

 

John only nodded. He saw the slight slump in the Detective Inspector’s shoulder. The problem of being around the Holmes, John thought, was that they gave you such faith. They did such extraordinary things without even batting their eyes that nothing seemed impossible for them. John had found himself waiting for Sherlock to open the door and just casually slung in for years. Ella had written in her paper that he was in denial, and he had known that too. He had tried to make himself accept, but small part of him always thought that maybe, maybe today. Because he was a _Holmes_.

 

“He has been driving himself mad with figuring out Mycroft’s non-existent plan, hasn’t he?” Greg said, probably thinking how thin Sherlock looked even by his standard. “I could have told him to stop digging in the first place. Say that accidents just do happen.”

 

“He still would have looked.”

 

“Yeah,” the police officer put his hands in his coat. “Maybe I was hoping that he would find something and declare that we were all idiots for not noticing.”   

 

They started to walk together and stepped into the hall leading to the scene of crime. They could see Sherlock through the open door. The man straightened himself at that moment, saying, “You are all imbeciles.”

 

John couldn’t suppress a wry chuckle. “Spoke too fast?”  

 

Greg gave a rueful smile in return. Shaking his head, he strode into the room. “Alright, Sherlock, what did you find out?”

 

“The identity of your killer. Arrest a professor of Astrophysics among his acquaintances. Boring.” Sherlock seemed ready to flash out of the scene in his typically dramatic fashion, judging by the way he was tightening his scarf. 

 

The police officer firmly planted himself in front of the door, blocking the way. “I would,” he said in an almost lazy tone. “As soon as you present your theory and your proof.”

 

Sherlock made a frustrated noise. He gestured at the bookcase and the table. “The professor’s new thesis, it wasn’t his. It was his student’s idea. The victim found that out, and foolishly tried to convince the professor to come out clean. He thought he wouldn’t be harmed, because the man is a close family friend. Look at the-” Sherlock suddenly stopped and whirled around.

 

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked cautiously. “What should we look at?”

 

“No, just..” Sherlock seemed paler than usual, which was frankly alarming. He pushed his hand through his head. “Not a family friend, but an uncle. You should…” the detective waved his arm uselessly. “Just summon the uncle. Or the friend. You do your job. And I, I have to go.” He pushed through the surprised police officer and the doctor.

 

“What just happened?” Greg asked, bewildered.

 

“I don’t know,” said John, feeling equally lost. “I’ve only seen him like this after the,” He was going to say Baskerville, but it wasn’t true. During the ride from the funeral, Sherlock had looked equally rattled. And he had whirled around, just like this time. Was there some connection between the two events?

 

“John?” Greg’s voice brought John back to the present. “Please tell me you are not also going to have an epiphany and disappear in a whirlwind.”

 

“I wouldn’t make a convincing whirlwind,” John deadpanned.

 

“John.”

 

“Sorry,” John shook his head. “Maybe he’s just tired, with his brother and everything. I’ll call if anything else is going on.”

 

“You do that,” Greg rubbed his neck tiredly. “I’ll have to figure out on my own how Sherlock came to that conclusion.”

 

After saying good-byes, John went out to find unsurprisingly empty street. No Sherlock, no taxi. Well, he had been planning for a calming walk, anyway. He needed to think. Something was clearly going on with Sherlock.


	3. Nothing goes as planned

**Chapter 3. Nothing goes as planned**

 

On his way home, John thought about many strategies to draw the answer out of his friend. Well, his method of confrontation had already been decided. He was just thinking about right questions to ask.

 

The thing about Sherlock was that the man couldn’t resist the opportunity to teach people and make them _think_. Most of the times, his attempt at coaxing people to come to the right conclusion on their own failed spectacularly, since his impatience and frustration soon led him to bombard them with information tinted heavily with insults. John, however, knew this almost proud look that Sherlock would wear when the doctor came up with some good (but still missing everything important) deductions of his own. It looked a bit like the one that a parent might give to a tiny seven- year-old kid who was trying to be clever. Patronizing, yes, but a high Holmesian complement, nonetheless. The look also signified that Sherlock was in an indulgent mood, which made him more open with information he shared. He would throw out hints like one would give a piece of bread to a duckling, and watch John follow them with twinkling eyes.  

 

John hadn't seen the look often, but he knew that it wouldn't appear unless deductions he made were interesting, or in a few rare instances, correct. He kind of noticed the pattern, too. The first step to make it happen was to grasp the detective’s attention with an unexpected comment. Then, you have to give out a well-thought out reasons to support your claim. It didn’t matter if it was off the mark or not, as long as it was logical. If you were wrong, the man would get condescending, but he still would give you something to go on in the end. The trick was to avoid being _boring_ or _tedious_ at all cost. Heaven forbid that happened, or the conversation was over.  

 

It was all easier said than done, John sighed at the looming sign of 221B. He still wasn’t sure how things were going to turn out. Then again, you never knew for certain when Sherlock Holmes was involved. Huffing, he went into the flat.

 

“Sherlock?” he called. There was no sign of the man, and that threw John off a bit. He had expected his flatmate to be there, maybe nursing a cup of brandy in front of the fire like he did on Baskerville. Probably locked himself in the room then, he shrugged and went.

 

“Sherlock, are you in there?” John knocked. No answer. He tested the knob, and sure enough found that it was locked. He briefly weighed the options, which contained a) standing here, trying to out stubborn Sherlock Holmes, or b) waiting in the living room where comfy chairs existed. He was about to choose option b) when the smell hit him. Smoke, from Sherlock’s room.

 

He frozed. All kinds of horrible thoughts swamped his mind. _Danger night_ , how could he have forgotten? Cursing himself for being a fool, he shouted, “Sherlock, open the door!” He banged the door for good measure. “Open it, or I’ll simply bring it down and make you pay for it!”

 

Muffled voice came from the other side, and the door opened without ceremony. One very irritated detective reeking with fumes stumbled out and opened his mouth, ready to deliver scathing remarks. John didn’t pay attention to that. He only pushed past the man, his mind screaming _ventilate, ventilate, ventilate_ , for the room was dangerously full of cigarette smoke. The cool air soothed his stinging eyes and abused nose, and it made him go half-boneless. Taking a deep breath in relief, he spun toward his sullen friend.

 

“Sherlock, what were you thinking?”

 

“You are the one who rudely barged in here. I was fine!”

 

“Fine is not what I see here! What were you… were you trying to suffocate yourself?”

 

Sherlock had the audacity to snort at that. “Don’t be ridiculous. You cannot die with this amount of smoke.”

 

“Tell that to your lung.”

 

They glared at each other. John broke the stalemate by exhaling loudly. He gestured at the stubs littered on the floor. “Where did you get all these cigarettes anyway?”

 

“From the stores. Where else do you think I could have got them?”

 

“But you’ve bribed them all not to sell you any!”

 

“Ah, the beauty of bribery is that you can always bribe back with more money,” Sherlock said almost cheerfully.      

 

The man was ridiculous. “Yeah, keep bribing them back and forth, why don’t you,” John grumbled. “You’ll soon run out of money at that rate.”

 

“No, I won’t,” Sherlock continued in more subdued, but still airy tone. “Mycroft left me all his money.”

 

“Oh,” of course, why hadn’t he thought of that? John’s mind became oddly blank. “Oh,” he lamely said one more time.

 

Sherlock, meanwhile, just picked up his scarf which had been discarded on the floor. He rubbed the fabric, looking uncertain for a moment. Maybe not, his voice was steady as he said, “John, I’ve got to leave for a couple of days.”

 

“New case? At this hour?” John asked, recovering. Sherlock tilted his head.

 

“Maybe, I have to check a few things.”

 

That was unnecessarily vague. John narrowed his eyes. “I guess I can’t come with you?” 

 

Grey eyes flicked downward. “I am afraid not.”

 

The old abandonment issue reared its head. John firmly squashed it down. They had several Talks, Sherlock wouldn’t leave him out if it were truly dangerous. He managed a nod, even though he couldn’t help but add, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

 

“Don’t worry,“ Sherlock’s voice was almost reluctantly kind.  

 

John stood and watched Sherlock go. His leg gave out a twinge. He sat down on Sherlock’s empty bed, rubbing his thigh. He thought about his careful plan, and how the conversation had gone just out of hand. Still no information, and no Sherlock Holmes to ask questions to boot. He covered his face with his hand. “What a mess,” he muttered to no one in particular.

 

After a while, he went to his bed and laid down. He closed his eyes. He was going to have a good night's sleep tonight.


End file.
